


Tightrope

by martinsbae



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-18
Updated: 2015-02-18
Packaged: 2018-03-13 16:26:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 12
Words: 10,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3388430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/martinsbae/pseuds/martinsbae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>im really sorry for this</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

There are no tears this time. None at all. My eyes aren't watering up, they are fixed on that point in the sky. My icy blue gaze like you find on frosted leaves in the winter latches onto the plane as it flies elegantly away, propelled away from the earth...and from me. No tears. But that doesn't mean it hurts any less. God, it doesn't mean it hurts any less. I channel the loss into my muscles; my left hand which is comfortably latched onto another's. I close my eyes briefly, breaking this spell. I can feel the soft hand paired and latched to mine, so feminine and delicate. I can feel the hard metal of a ring around her finger. It gently squeezes mine, reassuringly. I look up to her, my wife. Her lips curve up sadly to me. Something so sweet would send me running into her arms usually, but not now. Now I just feel numb.

The plane in the sky steals my glance again, like a magnet and a piece of steel. Fitting, really, considering the man inside the plane drew my attention the same way. He is miles high, but no matter of distance would stop me from searching for him in my vision. My best friend, Sherlock, forced to leave as if he were on top of that cursed hospital rooftop again. I flinch at the memory and my breathe hitches. No, I must not think of it. I must not think of the way he fell so gracefully, a beautiful exit to a beautiful life. The woman beside me notices the change and immediately puts her arm around me. I am not grateful for it. I love her. Truly. But it isn't who I'm looking for now, who I need.

I give a sniff of composure as I see the smartly dressed politician walk up towards me, a mixture of relief and annoyance on his sharp features. “Mycroft, what is it?” I ask.

He gives a great sigh and rolls his eyes. “Trouble has arisen, John. It turns out my little brother will not be leaving us this time”. And with that he strides off into his sleek black car, where his PA Anthea is undoubtedly glued to her Blackberry.

“What?” I look up into the sky and understand. The plane has turned around and is coming closer...closer. With each metre it returns, the heaviness evades from my heart a little more. I can't help it, I laugh. So does Mary, watching my face.

A breath later there he is, rushing down the plane's sturdy stairs in his long billowing coat. His hair is flat on one side where he was probably leaning on the side of his chair in boredom. He locks eyes with mine and grins, a contented but troubled one. He says nothing but hands me his phone swiftly with one eyebrow cocked up, expecting my reaction. I take it apprehensively, delightfully feeling his piercing gaze on my face.

On the phone screen is him. Moriarty. The very face of him makes my blood boil. Everything he put us through. Below, the words “DID YOU MISS ME?” fly by beneath the man's face. And I realise that Sherlock isn't just asking me to look at the return of our greatest nemesis, but is asking me the question with a glint of humour in those inquisitive eyes. I don't say it, because he knows. Yes, Sherlock, I missed you.

 


	2. Chapter 2

The next few days are a delight. Well, as close as you can get to delight with Sherlock. He's in one of his good moods. And with each cocky smirk his happiness seems to spread to nearby people, like carbon dioxide being sucked into a flower. People are gravitating towards him, not because they're amazed by his mind but because he's a pleasure to be around. And partly because this is such a rare trait in Sherlock people keep double checking to see if it hasn't vanished. Lestrade is much less rigid and doesn't seem to mind half so much when Sherlock takes the case into his own hands. However, I get the most impact of his good mood as I am always by his side. Mostly because I want more than anything to be, but also because he keeps looking round and checking I'm still there. The happiness has come from his being allowed to stay in London and the relief visibly emits from him. I spend a couple of nights in Baker Street, solving a case that was no match for Sherlock but too incomprehensible to me. But I decide I have to get back to Mary. I started a life with her, I can't keep running off after black cabs every night, not with a baby on the way.

Sherlock nods and goes to his “mind palace” when I tell him. I try not to let that bother me so much.

Life is great at home. Mary is blossoming and her belly rounds as the weeks go on. We're sitting on the sofa watching some film that is “critically acclaimed” but doesn't impress me in the slightest. Mary is half asleep on my shoulder, her painted red lips slightly parted and one slender hand draped across our child. I put my finger under her chin and lift her face towards mine. “You're beautiful” I say to her and she positively lights up. She kisses me, sweet and slow. It is the first time I notice I feel nothing.

 

Days turn into weeks and weeks turn into months. I see Sherlock less and less. I solve a few cases with him and it's as exhilarating as it ever was.

“So John, how's Mary? I suppose her due date isn't long, is it? I guess I won't be seeing you for a while after that. It's a shame, you've already gained another four pounds and you can give up on the extra walking around your village after work, it isn't doing anything”. Sherlock says as he is crouched over his microscope, his eyes never leaving the subject in the dish.

“Shut up” I say, popping the “P”. It's been a long day, but a great one. I so rarely spend the whole day with Sherlock nowadays. Being with him shows how much I miss him and need him. I open the fridge to eat something, but nothing is there. Not even jars of weird experiment things he usually keeps in here. “Sherlock, where the hell is all your food?” I demand of him.

He gives a sigh and mutters “not important” over his work.

“Sherlock have you even been eating?” I say. Now that I come to think of it, he _does_ look thinner.

He tuts. “Eating. Eating's boring”.

“What, is this another “breathing's boring” thing? There is nothing boring about Nando's Piri Piri Chicken, Sherlock”. I say to him, closing the fridge door. He is still looking at his work, his eyes darting about as he tries to fit the pieces together.

“Oh, John, what is your obsession with that restaurant?” he says.

“I'm serious Sherlock, I'm-” I break off, slightly annoyed at his lack of care of himself but more annoyed that I wasn't here to make him care. He finally looks at me, his blue gaze matching mine.

“You're what?” he says. I detect an ever so subtle shadow of challenge in his gaze. There is a small silence.

“That I'm worried about you. I know we haven't seen each other a lot recently and I'm sorry. I just have a lot going on, what with the baby coming and Mary's been feeling ill recently...” I trail off, trying to justify myself. His gaze is making me nervous, I feel like it can see my shame. If he realises how much I have actually been missing him it will be mortifying. Sherlock isn't one to understand that I have to sacrifice my time with him to support my family.

“I understand you have a family on the way John, I don't expect anything from you at all” he says, completely denying my thought that he didn’t understand. Perhaps his ordeal with Moriarty has made him more human. We look at each other, blue gaze upon blue gaze. He never falters, I'm now the subject under his microscope.

“But you do miss it though, admit it” he says, smiling. The accurateness of his statement knocks me off guard and I say nothing. He takes this as confirmation. “Anyway” he says, getting up and effectively changing the subject. “Lestrade is having a “works do” tonight and I need to leave a note for him saying I will not be attending due to my not wanting to come”. He begins scrawling a message on a piece of paper. “There”.

“Sherlock, you have to give him a reason, you can't just leave a note!” I say, laughing gratefully at the more comfortable topic of conversation.

“Why not? That's what people do, don't they? Leave a note” he says.

My face drops like a switch has been flicked. I look down at the floor and focus on my breathing that for some reason feels ten times harder to do than normal. I close my eyes but I can see him standing up, up. And I can hear him again. “That's what people do, don't they? Leave a note...goodbye, John”. And then he's falling again and-

“John! I'm sorry! John?” Sherlock's voice brings me back to reality and I breathe a sigh of relief.

“Sherl-” I say, not caring how I sound.

“I know, John, I know” he whispers.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I know very little about birthing so if all the details are messed up I'm sorry. xx

Mary feels ill a lot of the time so she's taken to having regular naps. This means I'm exhausted as I do all the errands and housework when I'm not seeing my patients. However, I remind myself I am not nearly as exhausted as her and I don't have a womb. I don't complain. The spare bedroom, we decided, will be lilac, for our girl. We haven't settled on a name yet. We keep alternating and then deciding we hate the name we've picked. A memorable evening was when we Googled “100 strangest names” and came across the name Agamemnon, the Greek king.

“I think it'll be interesting. It's a conversation starter isn't it? Meet our daughter, the Greek King” Mary said, laughing. She looked so beautiful then. For a moment, I felt utterly contented. If I was anyone else but me, this would be enough to call Heaven. But I am John Watson, attracted to “dangerous situations and people” as Sherlock said. No matter how happy I got at home, the other half of me searched for Sherlock and scanned the news on cases he could call me to help him for. The patheticness of it got at me regularly. So Mary sleeps and gets a fever and we say it'll pass.

But it doesn't. It doesn't pass. In fact, it gets worse. Much, much worse.

Mary can barely get out of bed most days. Her belly is so big now it exhausts her so much more. I take time off from the surgery to be with her. It's the night before it happens that we talk.

She's propped up on her bed, her eyes half closed and her breathing heavy. I'm sitting facing her and I touch her forehead. It burns like the sun. I give a sigh. “Don't worry. This will all go away, it's very common. You're so strong” I smile at her.

“Oh, I know I am” she whispers. I can barely make out what she's saying. For a minute we just look at each other. She slowly holds my hand. “I love you. John Watson. And I'm so happy we're having this child. You're going to make a great father. Ever since I first met you, I knew you would”. She says this, causing tears to well up in my eyes. I look at her in all her soon to be maternal beauty.

“I love you too, you know I do” I tell her. “You're the one that saved me. I didn't think I'd ever feel normal again, Mary, when he jumped. You came into my life and made everything better”. The truth surrounds my words, because I am not telling a single lie. “Never leave me”. Although I may feel detached from her recently, I need her in my life. She is my anchor of normality in my messed up world. She smiles so genuinely then, I'll never forget it. “I won't ever leave you, I promise” she tells me. Then we fall asleep, huddled together, her temperature rising and rising as the night wore on.

 

I'm woken in the night by a piercing scream. “JOHN!” Mary shouts beside me. I wake up alertly. Mary is sitting up with the duvet pushed back, and I can see that her waters have broken. And there's blood. It looks black against the sheets. “JOHN!” she screams again, clutching her belly. I rush to the phone and call the midwife who says she will be here immediately. Mary wanted a home birth. I go back to Mary, who is panting heavily. I utter words of “breathe” and “you can do this” over and over again and it seems to give her strength. The midwife comes and starts to fuss over her when the doorbell rings. I go to open it, for once not expecting Sherlock, who is there in his black coat and gloves. “It's baby day, right?” he says, striding through the door and grimacing at Mary's moans. I would ask how he knew but I've learnt not to question Sherlock on things like this as it leads to a long, long rant on deductions and such.

“Thanks for coming but I doubt there's anything to keep you entertained, me and the midwife have it all covered” I say to him, still slightly shook by the abruptness of the morning's events.

Sherlock looks hurt as he says “I am here to... _be_ with you?” he says as if unsure as to what he's saying, squinting off into the distance. The effort touches me though, even though I doubt Sherlock will know what to do.

“Thanks mate, I guess it would be nice to have someone here” I laugh, albeit nervously.

“I could ring Lestrade if you like?” he asks, one hundred percent serious.

“Yeah, why not invite Anderson and Donovon? Or the whole of Scotland Yard? It shouldn't be a problem, although you'll need to go buy me some more teabags, I don't have enough for that many British people in one room.” I say, sarcasm coming to me naturally in this tense morning. Sherlock doesn't pick this up though, I should've known.

“PG Tips or Tetley?” he asks, his eyebrows raised. Wow, he really doesn't understand sarcasm at all.

“Never mind” I say and return to a fighting Mary.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lol, sorry x

I am a wreck of emotion. It's as if I'm balancing on a tightrope and I'll either fall off one end into unashamed and unrestrained euphoria, or succumb to a complete sense of overwhelming and panic and drown in it. But I try to balance, I need to think about Mary. I go to her, she's pushing and panting. Slick sweat is visible on her forehead and her eyes are centred on nothing in particular. I have a moment of guilt that I left her for Sherlock. I run to hold her hand and feel an incredible sense of happiness seeping into my tightrope, and suddenly I'm not balancing any more, I am perfectly steady. The thought that in a couple of hours, hopefully, me and Mary will be cradling our daughter with Sherlock, despite himself, weeping at the sight of her. I laugh to myself, Sherlock barely ever cries. Maybe a grin, or a nod or-stop, John! Stop thinking about Sherlock!

I ask the midwife how Mary's doing, but am greeted with no response. I ask again. Nothing. The midwife's forehead is creased and sweaty. For a second my ideals falter, the image of us holding our baby gone. My smile drops and I look to Mary.

Strange, how a few seconds can change so much. She was struggling, yes, but the struggle of a soon to be mother. But this is beyond struggle. Her eyes are so wide, wider than ever. Her chest is positively heaving with the strength of her breathing. She is a quivering muddle of energy. Too much energy. Too much.

Her eyes lock onto mine. “John” she says, and her voice is full of determination and meaning. “John, you need to call her Marie. Mary Watson isn't my true name” she knows I know this, but it still sends a jab of betrayal through me. I don't understand what she is trying to say. I know she is talking about our daughter, but I don't understand. I don't understand. “Mary Watson is the person I always wanted to be, John. Your wife, Mrs Watson” she's saying this so fast it's hard to pick it up, but I manage. Her eyes are bloodshot and locked on mine. It is here I begin to panic.

“Mary, love, shush, I know it hurts, you just have to be brave, Mary, Mary...” I'm rambling, I don't know what I'm saying. I barely hear the midwife shouting at me “Mr Watson! I'm so sorry” and the faint worried tone of Sherlock's “John?!”. But I can't hear. I can only hear Mary.

“You need to call her Marie, I'm French, John. I want her to be religious, name her Marie after the Virgin Mary and after Mary Watson” she says this quieter, her eyes leaving mine and her breathing weakened and shallow. I don't understand what's happening and I'm a bloody doctor. Mary has never said anything about being religious before. Time begins to speed up too fast for my mind to comprehend what is happening. All I know is Mary's breathing has stopped. I look at her. With a final smile and a last flicker of those light eyes that drew me in and never let go, she utters her final words “Mary Watson”. And then she's gone. And I swear I must've died with her.

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I feel like George R. R. Martin.

_I'll never leave you, I promise._

 

That's what she said. A few hours ago. She said she wouldn't leave me. I can't hear. I can't see. Somebody has a hand on my back and is shouting in my ear. I think they're shouting my name, but I don't even know my own name. Is it Holmes? I don't know. Watson? Yes, Watson. John...Watson. I remember to breathe, I must breathe. I know this because I am a doctor. Yes. I say this to myself over and over in my head. _My name is John Watson and I am a doctor. My name is John Watson and I am a detective...? No, a doctor!_ But how can I be a doctor? Doctor's save lives. I didn't. I don't know how long I am in this stupor, all I know is that I've lost someone. Again. Sherlock died too, didn't he? I've not seen him since he jumped. And now Mary's gone too. I am alone.

 

Eventually my mind somehow returns to me. I don't know what caused it to but I found myself looking down. I don't know how they got there, but a newborn baby was in my arms. The word “perfection” came to me, but it didn't seem enough to describe her. She was the very image of health and beauty. Her eyes a light shade of grey, like charcoal. I knew then, I felt, this girl was strong. Like her mother. Like her father. I must be strong for her. She may not have a mother, but I will not let her down. I stare at her for a while, and I know people are around me. “Marie” I whisper over her, and one tear drop of mine lands perfectly on her lips.

 

The midwife takes her away from me and the crippling pain of it strikes my heart and the knowledge of her mother's death pierces me. I haven't even looked at Mary yet. I take a few moments, I still think I'm deaf, I can't hear what the tall man is saying into my ear. I glance up at her, preparing for the worst. I'm slightly startled by the lack of change in her. She looks slightly pale, but she looks like Mary. It strikes me then that she has never looked as beautiful as she does now. Calm washes over me and reality and understanding returns slowly. The man beside me walks over to her and gently lays two fingers on her eyes. I want to protest and scream at this man who dares touch my wife, but realise that the man is just closing her eyelids. He then bends down and places a kiss on her forehead, his tear-drops falling off his nose. Then I realise the man is Sherlock and he didn't die after all. I feel relief but it is dim, like a light far in the distance. I vaguely remember Sherlock returning as a waiter in front of me and Mary. I was going to propose to her that night. And then I remember our wedding and all those beautiful smiles she shed me. It is then that I throw up on the floor where I'm kneeling and the world goes black as my head hits the floor.

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the short chapter x

I wake up and blink my eyes a few times to get rid of the blurriness. The light hurts my eyes until they adjust. I can see many people and the colour cream. I'm in my living room, on my sofa. The world seems upside down so I sit up, flinching as I do. I have a painful headache and my hands jump to cup my forehead.

This time I know everything. I know that Mary is dead. I know that I have a daughter. I know that I passed out. I stand up, my mind and body surprisingly steady. The mass of people are here to take Mary's body away, I know. I've been on enough crime scenes with Sherlock to know how this kind of thing works. I walk into the room where she's laying on her bed. Sherlock's head snaps up immediately to my direction when I enter. After his, Lestrade's does, who must've arrived when I was unconscious. I don't say anything, I don't even look at them. I just walk slowly past them, sensing their gazes on my face. As I pass Lestrade, he lays a single hand on my back. This act of kindness almost overwhelms me and I feel woozy again. But I let it pass. I make it pass.

 

She looks refreshed, somebody has dressed her in a silk nightie and wiped the sweat of her face. I stare at her a long while and nobody says anything. I feel like I should say something to her, but no words come to my mind. I just bend down and kiss her soft lips, knowing it'll be the very last time. Knowing that she has exited my life. Knowing that I love her and that I let her down. Knowing that I have no fucking clue of what to do next. And I linger over her face for one single second and smile and whisper to her so Sherlock and Lestrade can't hear, “I love you, Mary Watson”.

 


	7. Chapter 7

Me and Marie move back to Baker Street, I couldn't stand being in that house. I arrive with my arms full of baby toys and nappies and cribs and all manner of things. Sherlock helps me carry the stuff upstairs to my bedroom. I set her crib up so it's at the bottom of my bed. It's been a couple of weeks since Mary's death and her funeral was a couple of days ago. I didn't feel much there, I felt I'd said everything to her that I could. I've been far from happy, but I feel as close as I can get to it today. Marie is such a joy in my life. I actually smile when I'm with her. And Sherlock helps out so much more than a person can. I sometimes worry he does more than me. We walk with Marie out together, which of course just adds to the rumours of me and Sherlock being a couple. I can't find it in me to care. A part of me never truly did.

Sherlock is great with her. He barely sleeps anyway, so he looks after her when I do. It was the middle of the night and I went downstairs to check on Sherlock's first time feeding her. I insisted that he not do this, it wasn't his daughter and I didn't want to bother him. But he was equally insistent and wouldn't hear of anything else. I stopped myself from making myself known to him. He was cradling her, a smile so contented I had to blink to see if it was the dark playing tricks on my eyes. He was looking down at her with clear love in his eyes. And I, in turn, looked at the two of them with love in mine.

This is how it went. It worked, surprisingly. There were nights I was plagued with dreams of Sherlock falling and Mary's last little smile. It caused me to be overprotective of Marie. It caused me and Sherlock to fight one night.

“John, would you stop worrying over the sake of one little cough! All infants get it, you're unnecessarily complicating matters” Sherlock would snap at me.

“It starts off as one little cough and then she's getting pneumonia and has to go to hospital” I barked back.

“John, I know you've had a lot to deal with, but you mustn't keep thinking Marie's in danger all the time. She is well looked after.” he said softly. I understood what he meant and that I was being overly paranoid.

“Shit, you're right. Sorry” I said and wiped my finger over Marie's pink cheek, causing her to giggle. Sherlock only sighed and placed a hand on my shoulder. At first I was startled by these physical acts he did, it was so unlike Sherlock, but I'd got used to it now and was grateful for it.

 

The strangest part was how _normal_ things were. It was actually this which made it all harder. We'd carried out the funeral and now everyone just expected us to move on. But it wasn't as easy as that. I saw Mary every time I looked at my daughter. I saw her when I looked at Sherlock. But...saying this, it was almost as if I'd been transported back in time by two years. I was back in Baker Street with Sherlock, solving cases now and again. The only thing that had changed was that there was a baby involved. Things start to take shape and meaning and it does get easier, eventually. I don't return to the surgery. It turns out Sherlock has picked up a _lot_ of money during his two years away. And since his prestigious return, he's getting more cases than he knows what to do with. Me and Mycroft eventually persuaded him that taking the money he's offered is not a bad thing, and he agreed with us. I know he takes the money because he's thinking about me and Marie. He really does have a heart, despite what people think and what he thinks of himself. I find myself in the very common position of being indebted to him, in more ways than just financially. 

 

Moriarty is a constant black cloud hanging over our heads. Everyone's heads. This is the most common cause for Sherlock's dark moods when they hit. He can't bear to think that he has been potentially outwitted by another person. He's angry that he managed to fake his death as well as he did himself. Mycroft is over our flat regularly, discussing what they might have overlooked. Mycroft thinks Moriarty isn't alive, this was just a post termination message to scare us. I secretly agree, although I'm worried for Marie. If Moriarty knew of Mary's death and the bond between my daughter and Sherlock, I can't think what the consequences would be.

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angry John is life.

“Where are they?!” Sherlock screams. He's in his blue flowing dressing gown, it's causing a shadow across the flat where the sunlight hits the walls.

“There is no way I'm telling you” I say, smiling at his face. I find I smile easier recently. I try to block out the fact that I sometimes cry through the night like a little child.

“I need them. Tell me where they are” he says, obviously referring to his “three patch problem”'s solution. There is no way I'm going to let him take up smoking again when Marie's around.

“Nope” I'm laughing now. He gives an annoyed sneer of his lip and sits down opposite me, his hands over his face, inspecting me. I sigh loudly and roll my eyes, leaning forward in my chair and squinting my eyes back at him. “Go on then” I say, “deduce me”.

He gives a cocky little smile. After a small pause, “you're feeling better” he says simply. Oh. I relax, my shoulders dropping.

“That's it?” I ask. He continues to look at me with that perfect, perfect gaze. I realise I'm staring a little too strongly back and give a cough and a blink. He shrugs.

“It's been six months since Mary died and Marie's doing well. You're crying less at night too” he says, clearly immune to the very uncomfortable and embarrassed fidget I'm doing in my chair, eyes on my feet.

“Yeah, so?” I say, a little more sharply than intended. He doesn't care though, he just continues to look at me, relaxing back into his chair like it's a deckchair on a sunny beach.

“Do you think it's time to “move on”?” he says, making little quotation marks with his fingers. He tilts his head at me, forcing me to listen. He's always had that power over people. Generally, people never ignore him and never interrupt him. It can be quite intense at moments like this.

“What, you want to set me up on a date? You, Sherlock Holmes, want to play Millionaire Matchmaker?” I say, referring to that god awful program that we had to endure when we lost the TV remote. He doesn't reply for a while, but his eyes momentarily drop and land on his feet, only to be sharply pulled back a split second later.

“I had someone in mind, yes” he says, his confident sitting position making me nervous. This is very unlike Sherlock, but I've become used to the unexpected with him.

“Who? Don't try and take a shot in the dark and say one of your homeless network. We know how that'll end” I say, thinking back to one of his workers who had an arguably over normal liking for Sherlock. That was a very funny experience for me, watching Sherlock getting more and more annoyed every time he spotted her lurking near us. Eventually he “let her go”. I tried to ask what he meant by that but he never gave me anything more. I thought it would be better off not knowing anyway.

He grimaces at the memory and rolls his eyes. “No, I would spare you the pain of that sort of relationship. I think you know who I'm referring to, John” he finishes so softly, I think someone else must've stole his voice briefly. The words hit my ears slowly. By the time he's finished speaking I'm still working out what he meant when he began. His eyes never leave mine. Then his words become clear to me, but so confusing at the same time. Who is he referring to? A part of me already knows, but I block it out and my mind tells me to be oblivious to what my heart knows.

“Urm...” I say, because I can't think _what_ to say. “Who...?” I ask rather stupidly. He rolls his eyes again at this and leans forward on his chair, his hands still in a steeple in front of his lips.

“Me. Obviously” he says with intensity in his eyes.

A mix of emotions rush through me. The first is complete confusion. Never has Sherlock talked this way before. The next is denial; Sherlock obviously doesn't know what he's saying. He is often oblivious to double meanings in the English language. Then suspicion; is this another experiment? Is he measuring how I would react? He has little knowledge of human emotions, he probably wouldn't register that his words might hurt me. But then I realise Sherlock isn't so cold hearted.

And the final emotion I cannot place. It is a mix of unexpected and unfamiliar happiness and even more confusing; excitement. But there is also a fair amount of nervousness and a lot of anger.

I've known for some time that I love Sherlock, that part is obvious. But as a lover? Is that truly what he's suggesting? No, it can't be. Sherlock doesn't feel things that way, he doesn't realise the meaning behind his words.

I would be lying to myself if I had never imagined me together with Sherlock...in  _that_ way. The thought of it wasn't off putting but, despite my denial, exciting. Before he...jumped...and before Mary came along, I used to think of him like that regularly. I even wanted to do something about it, put my desires into actions. But I was always too much of a coward. But I remember a big part of me wanting to. The thought of those perfect lips...

Stop! Why am I even considering this?! A white hot flash of guilt and Mary's face comes unrestricted and unwelcome to me.

It occurs to me then that my thoughts weren't quick but I have actually been sitting in silence for quite a while. I force my mind back into the present and look at Sherlock's eyes. It annoys me slightly to see the cocky smile back in place. It quirks up at the side.

“Sorry for catching you off guard like that. I can almost hear you thinking, it's physically painful” he says arrogantly to me. A breath escapes my throat, I am beginning to get embarrassingly flustered. Is he _laughing_ at me? I think he is. 

He eventually looses patience and gets up to walk to the table where he crouches over his microscope, as comfortable as if we hadn't been talking about us two potentially becoming “partners”. I follow him there, anger seeping into my body. I slam my hands on the table, causing his equipment to shake slightly. He sighs at this. My neck is bent and my face is very close to his.

For some reason I feel angry. So angry. More angry than I've felt in a long time.

“John, if you could aggressively breathe slightly quieter that'd be _great”_ his eyes still glued to his microscope, as if I am not worth looking at, even after what he just suggested. 

In a uncharacteristic act of violence I grab his microscope and fling it at the wall with the most strength I can muster. It hits the wall next to the fridge and smashes onto the floor. I'm breathing heavily, my forehead turning red. Sherlock barely even moved except to move his face to study me intently. He doesn't show any annoyance that I just destroyed a few day's of his work. He begins to say something, those perfect lips opening to release a sarcastic remark, most likely. But I block him off with one finger held up.

“HOW DARE YOU, SHERLOCK? HOW FUCKING DARE YOU?!” I spit at him. I surprise myself with the volume of my own voice, it's not been this loud since my army days. He seems surprised too, he actually _cowers_ into his chair. In the distance, I hear the piercing wail of Marie screaming at the noise I made and curse to myself. I begin to walk to her room but am stopped by Sherlock grabbing my arm so hard it hurts.

“No, John! I don't think you're emotions are controlled enough to be around an infant” he snaps back. His nose wrinkles as he says this and his words frighten me slightly. He never raises his voice, it's deathly quiet.

He goes to Marie's room and I wait in the same place I was standing, my breathing heavy and the anger still pulsing through me. Suddenly I'm not just angry at him for suggesting the thing I know he isn't serious about, I'm angry once again about him jumping. I'm angry he was away for two years. I'm angry that Mary died. I'm so fucking angry.

He returns with Marie crying loudly, patting her on the back and shushing her. But I can tell I've wound him up too.

“You know what you're problem is John?- _shushhhh_ , Marie. It's that you're so scared of admitting any feeling you might have that doesn't agree with what you _think_ you should feel. I knew you'd react that way.” It's a very rare thing to see Sherlock this angry, especially at me. It makes it so much worse. I try to calm down and when I speak my voice is considerably quieter.

“Sherlock-” I begin.

“-And you still haven't forgiven me, have you? For jumping. How many times do I have to explain and apologise for that. When will you let that go?” he shouts. And he storms off upstairs, angrier than ever. I sit down, feeling guiltier than ever.

Great, so we've just argued like a married couple. I can't help myself, I laugh. I laugh like I haven't laughed in a long while. I laugh and don't stop. I can vaguely hear Sherlock laughing from upstairs too.

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, I understand there is a lot of John crying in this story but you know...

We don't mention the argument for about a week. We pretend it never happened and carry on living wonderfully. And it is wonderful. I haven't forgotten about Mary, I don't think I ever will. I trust Mrs Hudson with my life, and so does Sherlock, so we don't mind leaving Marie with her. It is the highest compliment Sherlock is able to give, that he trusts her with Marie. She isn't Sherlock's child, but she might as well be. Sherlock not being her biological father is just a technicality.

We go on an exciting case this week. It has Sherlock filled with excited energy a lot of the time, and we all benefit from it. Little Marie laughs at him a lot. I start to feel almost good again. And the break from the pain is so welcome I can barely keep myself from smiling at every opportunity. We leave Marie with Mrs Hudson and I know she's safe in her hands. Our “business”, as Mycroft puts it, is absolutely booming with the amount of cases we have. The publicity by the press of Sherlock's celebrity status and his return from the dead makes us very, very busy. Along with this, Lestrade calls us in to help him a lot of the time. We're almost always rushed off our feet. But we still spend lots of time with Marie. We even brought her with us to a crime scene when Mrs Hudson was ill, however it took a lot of persuasion from Sherlock.

“I don't want her anywhere near that kind of danger, Sherlock! Most children's first memories are of fluffy toys or playgrounds, not dead bodies and regular visits to Scotland Yard!” I said.

“She needs toughening up! She's got to be feisty John, need I remind you who her parents are?” he said. Of course, this is true. Mary _was_ an assassin after all. And I don't even know what I am. I eventually agree, earning a triumphant grin from Sherlock.

“Berk” I say to him, which only makes his grin widen.

 

This week is especially perfect for another reason. It's a rare night off, we've just cracked another case and spirits are high. Molly and Mrs Hudson are sharing a glass of wine with us and little Marie is sitting on Sherlock's lap. She's now got more strength in her little back and she's progressing well. She has curly blonde hair now and icy grey eyes. She'll be beautiful when she's older, like she is now. We're all looking at her and laughing. She's grabbing onto Sherlock's curls and won't let go, Sherlock trying to prise away her remarkably strong fingers. He does eventually though, and smiles at her. She then looks into Sherlock's face, her father in everything but name, and calls him “dada” for the very first time. We all gasp at her first words and a rush of pride and happiness flows through me as I look at my beautiful daughter and look at the expression Sherlock's face is holding. He looks more surprised than he's ever been, but there is so much warmth and love in his eyes that's often rare to find in Sherlock. I clear my throat to stop a tear falling. If Mary could see us now...

Later on that night, after Marie was falling asleep in _my_ arms, she looked up at me and called me “dada” too. A moment like that comes once, maybe twice in life, and it puts me in a good mood for the rest of the month.

 

Mrs Hudson goes to bed, swaying slightly on her feet due to the red wine and kisses us both on the cheeks. And Molly goes too, lingering on Sherlock's cheek more than mine. I'm proud of Sherlock when he kisses her back and gives her a warm smile, causing Molly to blush and nearly run out of the room. Marie was put to bed a long time ago, but I go upstairs and check on her. She's sleeping so peacefully, her little hands balled up into fists above her head, a fighter in the making.

I go back downstairs and sit in my armchair with Sherlock opposite me. I pour myself another glass of wine and refill his glass. He's drunk much less than me, but his cheeks have a slight pinkish tinge to them. The alcohol hasn't took control of his wits though. As soon as I take a sip he assesses me once again, fingers not steepled due to his holding the wineglass, but his eyes take in every aspect of me. I've learnt to get used to it.

“John...have you thought about what I said last week?” he says quietly, as if worried a slight raise of his voice would send me into a mad temper again. I suddenly feel a sense of shame at my earlier actions.

“Yes” I say, dragging the word out. “Yes, I have” I say and look back at him. I don't feel angry any more, far from it. I'm not lying to him, I _have_ been thinking about it. If I’m being completely honest, I've thought of very little else since that talk. I've been thinking about my feelings for Sherlock, and what that might mean. I've admitted to myself I love him, because I do. _That_ didn't take much thought. And then I thought about being with him tenderly, not sexually as such, but brief kisses and touches. This didn't seem so bad. The thought of it made me shiver slightly. Then I thought about what it would be like if it was something more. I thought this would be terrifying for me to even consider, I've been straight my entire life. I'll certainly admit to a feeling of daunting at the idea of being with Sherlock in that way. But to my dismay, the primary and domineering emotions that came to me was intense excitement and desire. I would call it an “epiphany” if I was a more thoughtful soul, but in a way that is what it was. I realised I wanted Sherlock in that way. I wanted it more than anything. I wanted to touch him and explore him and kiss him...

And when I thought like this, a wave of guilt crashed down on me as the thought of Mary once again came unbidden to my mind. _Mary Watson is the person I always wanted to be, John. Your wife, Mrs Watson._ Her words from all those months ago pierced me and I fell asleep sobbing.

 


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Johnlock is canon, spread the word

“So...what do you think?” Sherlock asks, a hint of nervousness in his voice. I breathe out slightly and think, the wine making my thoughts slightly incoherent.

“I honestly don't know” I say. It's a lie. A big, big lie. I don't tell Sherlock the truth. I don't tell him that I want more than anything to kiss him. I don't tell him I want to love him harder than I'm doing already. He doesn't say anything but gently puts his wineglass down on the table and stands up. He then walks slowly towards my armchair so he's towering above me. He drops to his knees and, as I'm leaning forward anyway, his face is inches from mine.

My hairs stand on edge and I don't flinch. Nervousness courses through me and I tell myself to keep my eyes fixed on his, but I fail. Like they always seem to do, they flicker to those perfect bow shaped lips and back up. The situation sobers me up immediately and I am a muddle of emotions. My heart rate is so fast I wouldn't be surprised if he could hear it pounding in my chest. My heterosexual barrier slips and falls away completely as if it was never there, as if it had been waiting for Sherlock. And I don't care any more. I just see Sherlock. I take in his black curls which falls gracefully across his face. I look into his light eyes and over his cheekbones. I look at his lips and his chin. And I think I fall in love again.

I don't remember moving it, but my hand is cupped around his cheek, one thumb caressing gently. It feels right, like it was always meant to be there. I notice his breathing has almost stopped and he's blinking more than normal, out of nervousness I suppose.

And I don't think, I lean in. My lips touch his gently and we both close our eyes, both unfamiliar with each other. My lips trap his and the kiss is slow. But despite my controlled movements, inside my body is erratically jumping everywhere, my heart beat surely becoming dangerous. I sink into it, I am very aware that these lips, these perfect lips are Sherlock's. It drives me on and I want, need, more of him.

I press my lips more forcefully into his and we both change. The kiss isn't slow and smooth any more, it's desperate and messy. The sensation of our tongues meeting shoots straight to my groin, but I don't care, I don't care. We're both panting and his hands are in my hair. It feels extraordinary, so different from when a woman does this. They are strong, masculine, _musicians_ hands. And they're everywhere. Both my hands are grasping his chin as our lips aggressively dance against each other, both fighting for dominance. The thought that this captivating, utterly brilliant and beautiful man is _mine_ nearlysends me over the edge and I feel I have to break away.

 

Our foreheads are pressed together with his hands on either side of my face and my hands on his neck. We are still breathing heavily. I hear him chuckle, low and deep. It makes me want him again, but I refrain. The alcohol and my emotions aren't mixing well. Instead Sherlock kisses me again, quickly and sweetly on my lips.

“Well, I think we can safely say we don't have to keep correcting Angelo when he calls us a couple any more” he says, laughing and tilting his head towards mine repeatedly, the way people do when expecting to be kissed again. I laugh with him and kiss him gently. A large feeling of exhaustion comes to me, slightly masked by my sense of euphoria, but there all the same. I break away from our embrace and stand up. It's quite an effort with him in the way but he gets the message and returns to his seat, picking up his wineglass and boring his eyes into my back as I walk away from him giddily.

“Goodnight, Sherlock” I say, smiling the most contented smile in a long while.

I walk up the stairs and just about make out his whisper of “goodnight, John”, before I go into my room and fall asleep, for once not plagued by nightmares.

 


	11. Chapter 11

I wake up and stare at the ceiling. I feel happier than ever, but nerves once again are ebbing away at the edges of that happiness. I wonder how awkward it'll be in the morning, what do I even say to him? I lie there for a while until I swallow my courage and decide I must get up. I delay facing him for as long as possible though, I take a shower and spend double time getting dressed. It then occurs to me that of course he will notice the elongated time I'm taking and know the reason for it. I curse to myself and just go downstairs, carrying Marie.

I'm surprised by the amount of people in our living room. I'm greeted with a scene of Sherlock fully dressed and pacing round the room, obviously stressed and thinking. However, as he senses me walk into the room, he gives me a warm smile briefly, then returns to his pacing. Lestrade is here too, head bent over some papers in front of him, with a slightly awkward Sally Donovon behind him, nose wrinkled at being near Sherlock or the “freak” as she calls him. And Mycroft is here, talking at Sherlock. I catch the words “Moriarty” and my heart drops, knowing something serious is happening.

“What's going on?” I say worriedly, placing Marie on the floor where she plays with her toys. “Sherlock?” I ask, more sharply. He continues to pace and doesn't reply, so I look to Mycroft, with eyebrows raised.

He sighs. “It turns out Moriarty may have slightly outwitted us and pulled the same trick we did. He got in touch” he says meaningfully. I look from him to Lestrade.

“Well, what did he say?” I ask.

Lestrade pulls his head up and places his hands in his pockets. “A threat. He told us he's bored of playing riddles and that “daddy's gonna be bad”, which we assume is a reference to himself” he finishes in his strong cockney accent, Mycroft's eyebrows getting higher into his head as he goes on.

“What...a threat?” I ask, still slightly worried.

“A threat to me” Sherlock says, flicking one hand in the air as if it's not important enough to bother considering. He stops pacing and sighs. Mycroft checks his watch.

“Well, I think we've covered everything. I'll have your surveillance heightened just in case. If you find anything, Sherlock, notify me at once. The same to you Inspector” he says to Lestrade, who nods solemnly. And with that, Mycroft leaves. Lestrade picks up his coat.

“Right, we're expecting a note of some sort, if it does ever come. I don't think Moriarty is the time of man to just jump out of the blue. If anything _is_ going to happen, I think he'll tell you beforehand.” he says, sighs and walks out, followed by Donovon who says to Sherlock “sleep with one eye open, Freak”, causing hatred to boil up in me. I glare at her as they leave.

Sherlock sighs and looks at me.

“Worried?” I say to him. He smiles slightly.

“Not any more” and walks swiftly over to me and and kisses me gently on the lips. My hands shoot to his hair and I feel the thick curls between my fingers. His lips work softly against my own. I groan slightly into them. After a moment, he pulls away to my disappointment and walks to the window, where he picks up his violin and begins to play. So he's deeply thinking, maybe he is worried. I watch him and watch Marie, who watches Sherlock playing as if nothing is more entertaining in the world to her.

 

A few days later, we get the “note”, if that's what it is. But I don't know what it is. Sherlock does, I can tell. I know because he does nothing but play his violin. He does nothing but go into his mind palace. He does nothing but sit and stare. And he won't eat or sleep. I try to make him. Being a doctor really does have it's drawbacks, you spot potential dangers in everyone else. I make him chicken and put it on the table next to him. Sherlock smiles. He's only normal when me or Marie are around, anyone else and he blocks them out.

“You care too much about me” he says, fixing me with those eyes again. I shoot him a look.

“I care enough. Eat, please. After you've eaten you're going to talk to me.” I say, challenge in my eyes. I never usually talk to Sherlock like this, but I find the commands come easier to me when I know something is being hidden from me. Sherlock looks at me for a while, making me slightly self conscience as he takes in every detail of my face. His eyes flicker to my lips and I fight the shiver that wants to escape me. It's almost painful for me to repress the idea of me rushing to him and kissing him everywhere. God, what is he doing to me.

I sit down and I watch him eat it all, not saying a word. It takes a while, he's eating slower to annoy me. I catch his grin when he thinks I can't see. He finishes and sits back looking rather smug.

“Now talk” I shoot at him. He leans forward and rests his chin in his hands. The darkness of the room makes his cheekbones stand out even more, if that's possible.

His voice is incredibly husky as he says “I don't want to talk” and his eyes look up at me through his lashes. He's acting very seductively and I have no clue as to where he picked up this kind of behaviour. Despite myself, it is working. I can feel electricity starting to prick inside me, but I pretend like I'm oblivious to his charms.

“Has Moriarty contacted you?” I say, straight to the point. Partly because I'm desperate to know, and partly because I'm even more desperate to be with him. He doesn't reply, but the grin has gone.

“Sherlock, I'm not stupid. I know you well enough to know when you're lying. You don't think I analysed everything you said before you jumped that day. Since you came back I find it much easier to read you” I say, slightly happy with the flustered state this propels him in. He just looks at me, so I carry on. “I assume that Moriarty _has_ contacted you with this “threat” he's holding over your head. And from the way your behaving, I can only assume that this threat is on _my_ life” I say, and laugh inwardly at the shocked expression which flicks across his face.

“How...? Who...Who told you that?” he whispers, his hands dropping and a look of concern flicking across his sharp features.

“Nobody” I say. He sighs.

“I didn't want to tell you, to worry you.” he says. I get up and go to him so his head looks up to see mine.

“I'm not worried, Sherlock, I've been through a lot. We've beaten Moriarty before, we can beat him again” I say and look into his eyes, blue on blue. I feel an incredible sense of calm wash over me as I'm looking at him and realise I do love him, truly love him. I kiss him then. Every kiss is like our first and in a matter of seconds we're panting and our hands are everywhere. I see Sherlock everywhere and _feel_ him everywhere.

That night we slept together. I don't know how we got there, but we made love in his room. It was messy and awkward, neither of us had ever been with a man before, but it was equally perfect and nothing like we'd ever experienced. I didn't feel any guilt over Mary. There will always be a part of me that loves her, but I swear I could feel her smiling down at me, happy that I was happy.

I felt like we were always meant to be at this point, cliché as it was. But I realised I couldn't live without Sherlock in my life. Throughout those two years when I thought he was dead, it _wasn't_ truly living. It was enduring and waiting. Perhaps a part of me always knew he would return.

And he needs me too. That night when we were with each other, his eyes never left mine, his hands grasping me possessively, further exciting me and spurring me on, and at the end of it, he screamed my name.

We were both touching each other everywhere, releasing everything we'd kept bottled up over the long years together; my anger at him leaving, his worry over my life, the death of Mary, the love for Marie, _everything_ we've ever separately felt became one shared feeling. And it was intense and beautiful and _right_.

 

 

 

 

 

But not to last.

 


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry! I hope you enjoyed this. Please leave comments xx

It seems inevitable. Inevitable and inexplicable. The carpet below me is a beautiful shade of maroon. Strange, I wouldn't call this carpet “beautiful” or “maroon”, I would just say “red”. But it is beautiful, like everything, like the world. My knees ache, I've been kneeling for a while now, my hands raised above my head and my eyes on the floor. My heartbeat is beating at double speed and I swear I must be sweating. My neck itches as my jacket cuts into it. I can see a pair of feet a few metres above me. Black boots that are perfectly steady as if pinned to the ground. I have enough sight to see the whole of Sherlock and I have enough time to take in his stance.

His long coat is on and his scarf. His hands aren't behind his back though, the way he usually is, composed. They are spread outwards, palms up, pleading.

Pleading for my life.

I want to shout at him, it's no use. It's no use Sherlock. I am already dead.

His eyes flicker often to my face and I can clearly see the panic in his eyes. And one single tear rolls off his cheek. He gulps and looks to the man holding the gun to my temple.

The man is similarly dressed and I know his face probably better than my own.

“You didn't think I'd really let you get away with that, did you?” he says smoothly in his Irish accent, enjoyment seeping into his voice. “Fake your own death, why don't you?” he says and I tilt my head so I can see him staring into Sherlock's eyes. He knows I'm looking, I don't think he cares. He probably wants me to watch this conversation go on.

I'm surprised at my steadiness, I'm not even panicking, I'm resigned.

_It's no use. It's no use Sherlock. I am already dead._

I try to tell him with my eyes but he doesn't get the message. He looks into my eyes and sees nothing but fright.

Me and Moriarty both watch Sherlock as he takes one long, deep breath, closing his eyes. He's battling with himself, deciding what to do.

_It's no use Sherlock!_

He takes a moment to compose himself, then says “no”. And the way he says “no” seems to echo long after he's said it. His face is a contorted image of pain.

The man beside me presses the gun further into my head, earning a startled “fuck!” to escape me. Fine, I'm not so composed after all.

“You know how this ends Sherlock. If you're not on the side of the angels, don't expect me to not strike down an angel or two” Moriarty says. I have no clue what they're talking about but focus on my breathing. “You thought I wouldn't find out about little Johnny's love child. It's sweet you two kids finally got together, there wasn't a bigger shipper than me” he says, clearly enjoying himself.

_It's no use Sherlock. I am already dead._

And Sherlock, _Sherlock_ , falls to his knees in despair. His hands raise around his head and my momentary fright is chased away by the image of the man doing this extraordinary act of vulnerability. It's then I realise that he understands it's no use either. He knows I am already dead.

“Sorry Sherlock, Johnny here chose the decision to die for his little daughter. If he dies, she lives. Childsplay” he says with a smile. This is all true. Marie is everything. She is a mix of all three of us; me, Mary and Sherlock. She will grow and grow and the world best watch it's back for her.

Sherlock crawls to me, weeping. His hands touch my face and I can't make out what he's saying. I think he's saying “I'm sorry” over and over and I stop him with a smile and a “shut up, you berk”. I am crying too now. I lower my hands onto his head. The monster beside me doesn't mind this, I think he's enjoying it. But I block him out.

“John...John, I don't know, I don't...” Sherlock's rambling and I'm hit with a feeling of nostalgia of when I was in his place, crying over Mary's death.

“Take care of my little girl now” I smile and kiss him, knowing it will be the very last time. Knowing that it again feels like the very first time. Knowing that Sherlock will have no fucking clue as to what to do next.

“I love you” I say. I'm not just talking to Sherlock, I'm talking to my daughter, and Mary, and my sister, and my parents and London and _everything_.

“I love you” Sherlock manages and there is so much intensity in those pale eyes. It is the last thing I look at, it is the last thing I see. That last second stretches on forever, into eternity. And my tightrope is finished, I can see the end of it. I see Mary waving. And I turn my head and look back down the length of my tightrope and see my daughter. I see her growing. I see her walking down the aisle with Sherlock giving her away. I see her fighting.

And I see Sherlock, not at either side of my tightrope but balancing with me. Like he's doing now. Like he's been doing our entire lives.

_It is too late. It is too late Sherlock. I am already dead._

I sense the coming of the bullet.

 

And I don't see anything but Sherlock's face.

 

And it is the last thing I see. And I die like I have lived, in the eyes of someone I have loved.

 

 

 


End file.
